


The Spaces Between Us

by Zoni



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Cheating, Drama, Infidelity, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25431547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoni/pseuds/Zoni
Summary: Three months after his marriage to Elizabeth, Ciel can't stop thinking about what happened the night before the wedding that put distance between himself and Sebastian. Unable to fight himself any longer, he decides to find out why.
Relationships: Elizabeth Midford/Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	The Spaces Between Us

Every fiber of the world around me is tense.  
  
To everyone else, this is a nearly perfect day. Seated in my office with a light breeze blowing in through the window, I can appreciate the warm summer weather. Somewhere on the lawn far below, my wife and one of her friends are chattering away like birds as they enjoy midday tea. The stack of correspondence that sits on the desk in front of me is a sign that all is well with the company, endless papers proof of productivity. An unfinished letter to Queen Victoria rests to my right, awaiting my final word before it is sent away. Normal. Perfect. And yet, I feel as though a single touch might make everything shatter.  
  
The reason for my uneasiness stands no more than ten feet away. Poised and impeccably groomed, Sebastian is the very image of the ideal servant. He is doing nothing more offensive than seeing to the contents of the teacart, and yet that is enough to distract me from the text on the papers that need my attention. The soft sounds of clinking china and the dull click of a knife hitting a platter should be something that fades into the background as much as my household staff. At the moment, they seem to be amplified throughout the room, drowning out my thoughts with the promise of sweets and the person delivering them.  
  
He slides a cup of tea on the desk to my left, the scent of it wafting through the air in its own quiet temptation. The crisp white cotton of his gloves catches my eye, dragging my gaze away from the last line of a business contract. Unable to stop myself, I look up at him. His eyes are brown, soft. The perfect imitation of humanity. He breaks the stare before I can, straightening himself to present a professional air.  
  
"Young master," he says to me, "will you be accompanying Lady Phantomhive on her excursion to the country over the weekend?"  
  
"No." My answer is short, irritated. This is the third time he's asked the question in the past two days, purely as an excuse to address me by the title I have asked him not to use. As a child, young master was acceptable. As a man of twenty, it is humiliating. In front of others, he addresses me properly as Lord Phantomhive, any mention of master and servant banished to private moments. These solitary intimations of our true association shouldn't bother me, but all they do is add to my discomfort.  
  
As though he has never been told that I will remain at the manor, Sebastian simply smiles and responds, "Oh?"  
  
"You know the proposal for the Berlin factory is due by Monday next," I tell him. "If she wants company, she can take Paula with her."  
  
My reply garners no verbal response, but he looks at me as though trying to communicate something beyond words. The expression is one I haven't yet puzzled out, though it's a look I have seen on his face too often as of late. After a hesitation so slight that others might not notice, he asks, "Would you like to sample the dacquoise?"  
  
Two months ago, he wouldn't have bothered asking. If I have any weakness, it is my fondness for desserts. He has exploited that fact on any number of occasions for whatever benefit it might bring him.  
  
Today's pastry is no less decadent than usual. Layers of pastry, smelling of honey and hazelnut, are beautifully presented on the same rose-patterned plates that my mother had often served her friends tea upon. Even without taking a bite, I can almost feel  
the smoothness of the cream and the light crunch of biscuit that I know has been baked to utter perfection. There is the lightest coating of chocolate across the top, decorated with a delicate design of flowers that mimics the design on the plate perfectly. A chilled treat to offset the warmth of both the tea and the weather outside. Flawless.  
  
And yet, I hesitate.  
  
All the temptation presented to me on that plate is offset with the knowledge of how Sebastian prefers to serve his offerings. Were I to agree, he would take a slice and present it to me as any good servant might, standing behind me and sliding the desert to  
its proper place at my left so as to keep it out of the way of work. In doing so, he would lean close to me. Close enough that I could not ignore his presence, or the scent of that cologne he has taken to wearing.  
  
That very thought is enough to bring me back to full awareness of the tension in the room. The time when he would so closely attend to my person that I scarcely needed to breathe on my own is long past. Now, we are almost as strangers beyond these polite conversations. That change is at my discretion. That is also the reason for the look he is giving me now, the one that says more than his polite offering of dessert.  
  
But thoughts of the issues between us cannot win out against such an excellently prepared confection. Hesitation gives way as I nod slightly. In an instant, a small dessert plate has materialized in front of me. The action was so quick that I barely had time to register the brush of his suit coat against my sleeve as he pulled away. The scent of hazelnut fills the air, colored only slightly by something richer standing just out of sight.  
  
The first bite is bliss embodied. He has managed to capture the perfect level of sweetness, tempered with the slightest bitterness from the honey he used. But for me, the enjoyment is lessened with the knowledge of what caused the rift between him and me.

**~*~**

Several months ago, my mansion was filled with another type of tension entirely. My impending marriage to Lizzy had been announced, and a certain kind of chaos had taken over as the wedding approached. Up to that point, my life had been lived in such a way that I was able to present a public face that hid many of the darker aspects of my life in the service of the Queen. The changes that took place, both with my household staff and the way my life was to be lived once I was married, were dramatic.  
  
Aunt Frances had always attempted to make my household her business. That became increasingly evident as I prepared to marry her daughter. Within the space of six months, the manor had become a shining example of cleanliness and modern fashion. Members of her own household staff had also been incorporated into my service, bringing my household staff from a total of seven up to 28.  
  
Both I and Sebastian considered this increase in traffic a risk to the household's security and safety, but Aunt Frances was quick to remind us that the Duke of Westminster employed a total staff of more than 100, with half of them serving the household directly. In contrast, my much smaller staff was almost scandalously small.  
  
For the most part, my original staff were on their best behavior during the transition. There were adjustments to be made, of course. The new staff was not in the know about my private affairs, something I had no wish to change. To keep that part of my life separate required new routines, new construction within the house to hide rooms that held questionable materials, and even changes to the way everyday life played out. But the greatest difference came where I least expected it: Sebastian.  
  
As the wedding drew closer, Sebastian fell into a foul mood unlike anything I had witnessed previously. His service never faltered, but his temper ran increasingly short with other members of the household staff. That was equally true whether he was interacting with Bard or the new footman. Even the mildest offenses were handled as though they had threatened the lives of everyone under my roof. A broken teacup resulted in two hours of scrubbing for the new kitchen maid in repayment. Bard was even ordered out of the house for two days as the result of a small grease fire.  
  
That is not to say that I had never seen Sebastian angry prior to the wedding preparations. However, rarely had he allowed the inconveniences he encountered to affect the way he treated other members of the staff and the guests we received. These little dramas have always crossed my awareness even if they were not the focus of my attention.  
  
But no matter what was happening with my staff, Sebastian remained both dedicated and attentive in his care of me. I knew the impending marriage was to blame for his foul temper, though I assumed it was due to the many issues it caused in relation to the reorganizing of the staff. After all, Sebastian has always been particular in the way he runs the household. As logical as my assumptions were, they were far off the mark.  
  
The night before the wedding, I decided to ask him what was bothering him. The hour was late, and final preparations for the next day's events had taken longer than anticipated. But once my guests had departed and dinner had been cleared away, it was a night much like any other. As with every night since he and I had first returned to the manor house, Sebastian helped me dress for bed before I retired.  
  
As he fastened the buttons on my nightshirt, I asked him, "Does the wedding bother you that much?"  
  
He glanced up at me, the question unexpected. "Somewhat so. I apologize if I have done something to upset you, young master."  
  
"You haven't," I told him. There was no need to mention that he had frightened three maids and made at least one of them cry over a chipped vase. "But why does it bother you, Sebastian? Everything will settle down soon enough."  
  
His fingers kept working down the row of buttons on my shirt. This was something he had done thousands of times over the years he had been at my side. Even without comment from him, I knew his expressions well enough to understand that he was deciding how to phrase his response to my question.  
  
When he had finished buttoning the nightshirt, he got to his feet and smoothed the fabric of my collar for a moment, flattening the fabric. Then, he slid his fingers across the side of my face. I thought he meant to smooth my hair or examine the mark of our contract in my eye as he sometimes did. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, kissing me.  
  
Shock was my first and only real reaction. I shoved him away as though I had just been burned, shouting, "What are you doing, Sebastian?!"

**~*~**

Since that night, Sebastian has become the perfect servant. Everything he does, from his management of the staff to the elaborate meals he fixes, is utterly flawless. That is not to say that he was ever a terrible butler in any sense, but the little incidents such as when his anger with a misstep by Finny would be evident or lunch might be slightly delayed due to an issue with the ovens have vanished altogether. Even his care of myself and Elizabeth has been impeccable.  
  
Sebastian is polite, attentive, and consistent in his service. Every task is carried out efficiently, without a single comment or complaint. This facade of professionalism should put him above reproach, but it is a far cry from the way he had served me before my marriage. The small arguments we had that I had scarcely noticed vanished overnight. Conversations have been reduced to only the words that must be spoken, not necessarily those that I might wish to speak. We have not discussed what happened that night before the wedding. We never will.  
  
As with every other day, thoughts such as these are shoved out as my mind as soon as they come to the surface. Inevitably, the more I try not to focus on Sebastian, the more I seem to do exactly the opposite. The demon has a way of capturing my attention at the worst possible moment. More than once, I have wondered if anyone else noticed the way he stared at me through the entire wedding ceremony. Does Lizzy wonder why I pulled away from her last night? All I want is to find a way to stop thinking about him.  
  
"Young master?"  
  
"I'm done," I tell him. The now-empty plate is shoved to the edge of the desk, eliminating any need he might have to reach around me to retrieve it. The dish is swiftly removed, though he ignores my teacup that has gone untouched. Before turning back to his teacart, he leans forward and brushes his hand lightly across my jaw.  
  
Startling, I jerk back from the touch. "Sebastian, wh--"  
  
"I was merely removing some crumbs, young master," he tells me, looking vaguely confused at my reaction. He thinks I am overreacting.  
  
"I am not a child who needs their face wiped, Sebastian." Embarrassment is easy to cover with annoyance, though I can do nothing about the flush I am certain colors my features. Focusing intently on the paperwork on the desk in front of me, I tell him, "And for the last time, stop calling me 'young master.'"  
  
Without bothering to give any sort of verbal response, Sebastian bows as though I had just commended him on the excellence of his baking. Placing the used plate on his teacart, he wheels it out of the room without any further incident.  
  
The moment the door clicks shut, I allow myself to sink a little further into my office chair. All those important business papers on the desk are ignored as the tension in the room seems to leave along with my servant. Slowly, I can feel the cool wood of the chair's arm rests as my fingers wrap around them. Household sounds, the clatter of dishes and quiet conversations between servants, begin to fill the air. The breeze from outside registers once more, as though it had been temporarily paused during my tea.  
  
I am Ciel Phantomhive, Earl Phantomhive, the Queen's guard dog. My actions and the decisions have the ability to control the movements of London's entire criminal economy. And yet, all it takes is a single touch of his gloved hand to make my entire world come unsteady. No one should ever be able to affect me this strongly. No one ever has except him. Why?

**~*~**

That feeling of uneasiness shadows me through the rest of my day. When the tedium of work concludes and dinner has drawn to a close, the prospect of an uneventful night comes as a relief. After all, it offers a rare chance to escape the source of my stress.

Solitude is a resource I have come to treasure over the past year. That fact is doubly true since my marriage. While I had many obligations as a child, they are nothing to the numerous social engagements I am bound to as a member of British high society. Even in my own home, I am rarely alone. Whether servants, friends, business partners or acquaintances of my wife, my house is nearly always filled with people of one sort or another. But in my bedroom, I have at least a chance of peace. Though, even now, I am not alone.  
  
Elizabeth scoots across our bed to give me a soft kiss on the cheek as I sit down next to her. Over the past few years, she has blossomed into a remarkable woman. Long gone is the obnoxious, offensive little girl who wanted nothing more than to cover everything with ribbons. In her place is the very embodiment of charm. I could not be prouder to have someone like her as my wife.  
  
Marriage is something that people of our caliber do as an obligation. There are expectations for everything: the age and lineage of the spouse, how they should behave, and even what function they might have once the partnership is sealed. Roughly all the same qualifications are often considered when buying a prize horse. But in the case of our arranged marriage, I could have no objections to the wife my parents chose for me.  
  
Lizzy's companionship is something I have come to cherish. But she is also my match in another way: she can navigate the oft-treacherous waters of social engagements in a way that I have never fully mastered. While I may be polite, gracious, and well-received, it is she who manages to charm the wives of visiting diplomats into inviting us for dinners that lead to business arrangements. She has saved me from my own missteps on more than one occasion.  
  
Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, I press a kiss to her hair. "I haven't seen you since this morning. Did you enjoy your visit with Annette?"  
  
Whether or not I am actually interested in hearing her response, Lizzy is clearly delighted by the simple fact that I've even bothered asking. She blushes, smiling brightly and rushes to tell me every little thing that filled her day.  
  
Women lead such tedious lives, filled with gossip and their own brand of politics along with whatever other mysterious pursuits they enjoy. Listening to her as she discusses the ins and outs of purchasing lace, I must wonder if she didn't accomplish more with her day than I did with my own.  
  
"I am truly looking forward to the visit with Mother, though she does wish you would come with me. I cannot wait to see the new decor they have in--" Her voice trails off mid-sentence as she looks at me, a slight frown forming as though she has suddenly noticed something amiss.  
  
"What is it?" I ask curiously.  
  
"Won't you take this off?" she asks. Lizzy raises a hand and brushes her fingertips over the white bandage that I keep across my right eye as I sleep. The eye patch will not stay in place during the night, and I will not let her see the eye uncovered. She smiles at me in what I imagine is a reassuring manner. "I promise, Ciel, it doesn't bother me."  
  
"No."  
  
This is one matter I will not discuss with her. She knows as much, though she still attempts to broach the issue from time to time. Elizabeth does not know about the seal in my right eye. She most certainly has no knowledge of the brand on my back, the true nature of what happened when I was a child, or the contract I hold with Sebastian. She can never know that he will one day devour my soul.  
  
Elizabeth was raised to be the wife of the Queen's guard dog. She knows far more about the shadows around my life than many ever will. And yet, there are many things about me that she will never understand. As much as possible, I am honest with her when she asks about delicate subjects. But it is easier if she never has the opportunity to ask those questions in the first place. She knows that part of my life will always be out of her reach. My hope is that she will one day learn to respect that aspect of our marriage.  
  
She nods, her eyes falling to my pajama shirt. She wants me to remove that as well, I know, but it will also stay firmly in place. She has never seen me without something to cover the marks on my skin, even when we are as close as two people can be.  
  
Lizzy manages to pull my thoughts away from the scars that mark my body as she reaches up and pulls me down to her. Her sweet kisses are enough to pull me away from the darkness that haunts my past and the life I keep hidden from her. She murmurs happily against my lips as I turn to bury a hand in her hair. I want nothing more than to lose myself in her touch, ignoring everything that has happened throughout the day. The work, the visitors, and even the issues with Sebastian fade into nothing at her hands.  
  
Wrapping both of her slender arms around me, she pulls me down onto the mattress and deepens the kiss. Her body is warm beneath mine, barely covered by the lace of her nightdress. As I move to push her into the fabric, a stray thought crosses my mind. For the barest fraction of a second, it isn't Lizzy I am picturing underneath of me. Instead, there is a flash of pitch-black hair and the sound of a much deeper voice whispering my name. The image is so strong that I jolt back, breaking the kiss and nearly falling off the bed in the process.  
  
"Ciel?" She is staring at me, her green eyes wide and uncomprehending. "Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
She moves to press herself up against me, filling me with the edges of warmth once more. The feeling is cut short as I feel fingertips under the back of my pajama shirt, sliding up my skin. She already knows I will not allow that. Moving away as gently as possible, I get to my feet and steady my breathing.  
  
"Ciel," she starts, but the sentence dies on her lips as I step towards the door and reach for a dressing jacket. She reaches for me, but she already knows I will not come back to bed. Considering what she just tried, I am sure she believes it is because she tried to touch where I will not permit. For my part, I am haunted by the brief slip I had. Even here, in the intimacy of my bedchambers and my marital bed, I cannot escape him.  
  
This isn't the first time he's wandered into my thoughts, and it always happens at the worst of times. I have pulled myself out of her arms more times than I would care to count, unable to look at her when I find myself thinking of him instead.  
  
"I'll be back in a while," I tell my wife. Without waiting for a response, I head out of the bedroom.  
  
The hall offers a sort of stillness completely at odds with the thoughts tumbling through my mind as I head down the stairs and make my way towards the kitchen. Moonlight coming through the windows provides the only illumination; the lights have all been put out for the night and I didn't have the forethought to bring a lamp.  
  
As I reach the kitchen doors, I can feel all the forces in the universe conspiring against me. The very first thing I can see upon entering is the fact that someone is still working inside. That someone is Sebastian.  
  
Suit jacket and gloves removed, he is wearing an apron as he slices vegetables. More than likely, he is finishing preparations for tomorrow's lunch or dinner. The instant I see him, the desire to turn around and walk back out the doors I have just come through. But doing so would make it even more obvious that he is the cause of my sleeplessness. Concern, or whatever obligation he feels for me because of our contract, would undoubtedly cause him to inquire as to the nature of the problem regardless of how far the two of us have drifted apart. That is more than I am prepared to deal with at the present moment.  
  
Resigning myself to the appearance of normalcy, as much as it is possible in this situation, I take a seat at the small table we keep in the kitchen for the servants' use. The wooden chair creaks as I take a seat, betraying my presence. Leaning back, I try to relax, letting my thoughts drift to anything but the demon standing only yards away.  
  
Thoughts of business and even the sounds from outside my window earlier in the day are drowned out by the soft sounds of the knife at work on whatever it is that Sebastian is slicing. There is a quiet cadence to the noise that has a hypnotic effect on me, so much so that I fail to notice when the sound stops. Unaware that he's even moved, I startle slightly when a glass materializes on the small table in front of me.  
  
"You look as though you could use this, young master," Sebastian says quietly, taking a step back. He has returned to the counter and his vegetables before I have even had a chance to notice what he's brought me.  
  
The cup is just barely warm to the touch, and I can tell just from the scent what is inside: milk, sweetened with honey. The mixture is a traditional cure for anything that keeps one from sleep, and it has been a favorite of mine since childhood. He's never fixed it before without my asking him to do so.  
  
Giving up on my attempt at keeping my thoughts on something else, I let myself watch him as he works. From where I sit, it is easy to see that he's sliced enough vegetables to make enough ratatouille to feed a small village, and it's likely he's been at it for a while. Appearances firmly in place, he is going about his task as any ordinary chef might. The knife moves with a speed and precision that is at once impressive and yet utterly reasonable. When he finishes, the vegetables are packed away, and he begins the task of washing the dirty dishes.  
  
The most remarkable thing about what he's doing has nothing to do with the task itself. It's the fact that he's smiling. Just a little, but it is there. Enough to be noticed. No matter how perfect the facade he keeps up, he is not human. Even after having seen him come to take pleasure in so many of the duties he performs around the house, I have always wondered how it is that a creature such as him could come to be doing dishes in my kitchen. Not only cleaning them, but also taking some sort of satisfaction from seeing work done well. The world is a far stranger place than even I would care to admit.  
  
The instant I finish the glass of milk, he returns to my side to retrieve the glass. The warmth of his ungloved fingers brushes against my hand as he takes it from me. Watching him return to the sink to wash it, I ask, "Do you often come here at night?"  
  
"Sometimes," he replies, sinking his hands into the water. "I find it easier to think and work when I am alone."  
  
"Bard and the others can be a distraction," I agree. Whatever apprehension I had when I arrived, the tension I felt earlier in my office doesn't hold sway here. If anything, the silence that comes after our brief exchange of words is more disturbing than the earlier discomfort if only because I do not mind it.  
  
But maybe that is a problem, as well.  
  
Without waiting to see if he will add anything to our brief exchange, I get to my feet with the intention of leaving. Nearly as soon as I do, I find him standing beside the kitchen island, straightening his suit coat, and pulling his gloves back into place. As I exit the kitchen, I can hear the soft sounds of his footfalls on the floor behind me. The clicking of his heels on the wooden floors sets a rhythm for both of us as we walk through the empty halls of the mansion.  
  
Through the foyer, up the stairs, and through endless corridors, the only place I intend on going is anywhere other than the master bedroom. With everything on my mind tonight, Lizzy is the last person I want to see right now. There is a temptation to do nothing more than walk the halls, losing myself in the quiet and never settling in one room or another, until exhaustion finally makes a stand.  
  
But there is really no solitude to be found with Sebastian so close, his presence strong enough to be felt as he follows my path. He carries a small candelabrum, the flickering flames throwing light on the walls for several feet around us. The light is purely for my benefit; he doesn't need any assistance to see in the darkness. I wonder if he has fallen so far into his charade as a butler that he, too, sometimes forgets that he does not need the light.  
  
My steps slow almost imperceptibly as we walk. Keeping his own pace steady, Sebastian is soon at my side rather than trailing behind me. Every step he takes now falls in pace with my own.  
  
As we pass through the same hall for a second time, I momentarily wonder if he may just keep following my lead until I ask him to give me privacy. Instead, his pace slows as we approach the study for a second time. He waits for me to slow with him, finally pausing as he turns to look at me directly. He is smiling once again.  
  
"I will leave you here, young master," he tells me quietly. "I have other duties to attend. You may take the light if you wish. I assume you will be needing it as I have not seen you carrying one of your own."  
  
All the tension from earlier in the day seems to have found its way into this hallway. I am tired of fighting it. Tired of fighting him, pushing him away as I have done for the past two months. Looking at me the way he is, features lit by the flickering candles he carries, it is easy to tell that he expects me to simply take the light and leave him to his own devices. Part of me would like nothing more than to do just that.  
  
But if that part of me had won out, I would not have found myself sitting in my own kitchen late at night in the first place. So instead, I do something that surprises both of us. Taking a step forward, I reach out and push him against the opposite wall, one hand on his shoulder.  
  
For once, he looks surprised. "Young m--"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Before I can second guess myself, I give into something I have resisted since that fateful night before my wedding. One hand on his tie to pull him closer, I lean in and claim his mouth with my own.


End file.
